


Spoken in Haste

by joinedunderprotest



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Cinderella story where Cinderella hates his life and also Princess Charming laughs at him a lot, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-13 19:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14754873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joinedunderprotest/pseuds/joinedunderprotest
Summary: Suddenly and entirely against his own will, Gendry Waters is pulled away from his forge and made Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. He is forced to grapple with governance duties, the rules of polite society, and the most intriguing, headstrong lady he's ever met.Lady Arya Stark is dragged from her home for the summer to accompany her father as he assists the struggling new lord. She must endure garden parties, pretty dresses, and the marriage market. She has indignantly vowed that she will never marry any stupid man. Her vow, however, is tested when the stupidest man of all begins to hold a certain appeal.How can budding feelings square off against the angry declarations of the two most stubborn young souls in the realm?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by this utterly gorgeous post, which is not my own: [X](https://donalnoyes.tumblr.com/post/171922923210/aryagendry-regency-era-romantic-comedy-aka-me)

The greatest scandal of our age came about when Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Warden of the East, repudiated his wife on the grounds of adultery and immoral relations.

In ordinary circumstances, it would have been hypocrisy of the highest order for Lord Baratheon to accuse anyone of lewdness. It was well known throughout all of Westeros that His Lordship had committed carnal acts with any woman who would have him, be she elegant lady or common harlot. Ordinarily, the public, particularly in the liberal South, might have agreed that an unfaithful wife would be precisely what he deserved and that the pair should simply reconcile themselves to their affairs.

However, Lord Baratheon had not simply accused Her Ladyship, Cersei Lannister of the Westerlands, of common adultery. No, indeed, he charged her with incest, claiming that she had lain with her own twin brother, Ser Jaime Lannister, countless times over the course of their marriage. He further claimed that her three children had not been sired by her lawful husband but by her brother-lover.

These charges were so obscene, so grotesque, that they might have been dismissed outright as the mad ravings of a dissolute old libertine with a vulgar mind. However, they were not. For one, it had long been noted that none of the alleged Baratheon children had inherited the distinctive Baratheon look, and were instead virtual copies of their mother. What had been seen as a quirk of bloodlines was now noted in weighted tones. For another, given Lady Cersei’s palpable disdain for her husband, it surprised no one that she might seek affection outside her marriage bed. And yet she also showed varying degrees of contempt for everyone else, save her own brother, which left no other viable suspects for her paramour. Both of these factors kept the rumours circulating at full speed. The Lady’s insufferable arrogance and refusal to forge meaningful connections outside of her own immediate family ultimately guaranteed that no important families from outside the Westerlands tried to tamp down on the gossip.

It is said that Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Warden of the West, dispatched his nephew Lancel as a messenger to his son-in-law at once, threatening fierce reprisals against the Stormlands, chiefly the end of Western imports, if Lord Robert attempted any further slander against the Lannisters. The message added that if Lord Robert retracted all of his falsehoods, Lord Tywin was willing to increase the portion of his estate that would be left to his Baratheon grandchildren after his death.

By all reports, the Storm Lord, whose speech was as foul as his temper, responded by ripping up the letter and throwing the pieces in the air. He thundered at the terrified Lancel, “What do I care what that whore-spawning old lion leaves to his bastard grandchildren when he’s dead? Does that bawd think he can keep me tied to him and his devil-laying hedge whore with a few gold scrapings? I’ve fought in wars! He can meet on the dueling grounds if he cares so much about his name!”

And so it was that Robert Baratheon divorced his wife. She left the Stormlands in a rage, vowing never to return to such a backwater. The denizens of the so-called backwater were hardly sorry to see her go.

There were a few gentle souls who mourned the departure of her two younger children, Myrcella and Tommen. Though rarely seen out and about in the region, they were generally considered to be decent types, if not terribly interesting. All, however, breathed a sigh of relief at the loss of Joffrey, the heir-no-longer. He was widely known to be a vicious beast of no redeeming qualities, and it was agreed that the Stormlands, and indeed Westeros at large, had avoided a dismal future with him as master of Storm’s End.

No sooner had the former lady and her non-Baratheon children crossed into the Reach on their way back to the Westerlands than people began to raise questions of succession.

Lord Robert had two younger brothers who were assumed to be his heirs presumptive. The elder of the two, Admiral Stannis Baratheon, was a fighting man like his brother, although he had achieved his success in the navy, not the military. A great captain but a terrible bore, the thought of having him take the helm someday made the storm lords shudder. He scarcely seemed more enthused about the role, although he prized duty above all else and would not refuse the title if it were passed on to him legally.

The lords did prefer the thought of the youngest Baratheon brother, Lord Renly, taking over. He was a genial, vivacious fellow, like Robert. But Admiral Baratheon was in good health, so there was no question of the younger brother supplanting the elder in the line of succession.

There was also the concern about children. Stannis had only a young daughter, Shireen, and no sons, though he and his wife had tried for many years. As for Renly, it was whispered in the most intimate circles that he was unlikely ever to produce children of his own. The dismal future, it seemed, was that, whatever Robert elected to do, the Baratheon name would be lost within a generation.

So Robert, of course, elected to do something utterly absurd instead.

\---

When a pair of fine gentlemen walked into Tobho Mott’s shop, Gendry paid them no mind. Master Mott had taught him that if a lady came in, even a little lady of five clutching her father’s hand, then he was to drop everything and stand politely until she’d left. But he didn’t need to do the same for a gentleman if he was busy. A late shipment this morning meant he was behind on all his work, so he looked up long enough to be sure there wasn’t no lady in the doorway, and then he turned back to his anvil and carried on.

He hammered on for barely a minute more before he heard his name being called. It seemed the men wanted to talk to him. He really didn’t have time for them, but that didn’t matter to anyone but him. He’d have to go talk to them, and later he’d have to deal with his customer yelling at him because his order wasn’t quite ready yet. That was just how it went.

The two men looked to be brothers. They were both of tall build, standing almost high enough to look him in the eye, which didn’t happen often. They had the same blue eyes. Same black hair, too, though the older one was losing most of his. They were dressed so finely they had to be highborn. The younger one had a gleeful look in his eyes, but the older looked annoyed, like he’d definitely been dragged here. Gendry suspected he himself looked the same whenever he was anywhere but his forge.

“You must be Gendry,” the cheerful younger one guessed. “I’ve heard about you.”

Gendry stiffened his shoulders. He didn’t much like the thought of some fancy man knowing his name.

“You been talking to Lord Arryn, sir?” he asked, trying not to sound accusing and mostly failing. Master Mott usually knew better than to make him talk to customers.

“How did you guess?” the man asked, sounding impressed.

“He’s the only gentleman who’s ever said two words to me,” Gendry answered. “Don’t imagine there’s anyone else outside Flea Bottom who ever heard or spoke of me.”

“Lord Arryn came a few times, did he not?” asked the older man. He narrowed his eyes at Gendry like he could look into his soul but doubted there was much of value in there.

“He did,” Master Mott interjected. “First a couple of years ago, and then again recently.”

“Ah,” said the younger man. “And he talked to Gendry, yes? About his family, his apprenticeship?”

“I’m not an apprentice anymore,” Gendry butted in. “I’m twenty-three, and by law apprenticeships don’t go past twenty-one. I’m a journeyman, and in a few years, I’ll be a master craftsman myself.”

“I stand corrected,” the man acknowledged with good humour, as if it were the funniest mistake in the history of the world. “He also spoke of your family history, I’m told.”

Somewhere at the back of his mind, Gendry felt something warning him of danger.

“If you want to call it that,” he said. “Just my mum. Don’t have no father. Not much of a history.”

“You don’t have _a_ father,” the older corrected. “You do, actually.”

The warning got a little louder.

“I don’t, sir,” he told them.

“Perhaps we ought to introduce ourselves,” the younger one said. “My name is Lord Renly Baratheon, and this is my brother, Admiral Stannis Baratheon. I believe you have heard of my eldest brother, Lord Paramount Robert Baratheon.”

Master Mott scraped even further. “Of course, my lords. His Lordship comes often to King’s Landing to deal with his affairs.” Gendry saw him wince a little at his choice of words, but he ploughed on. “He enjoys a good deal of esteem throughout the city. Regrettably, he has never gifted my shop with his patronage.”

“And yet we can be certain that he patronised Flea Bottom extensively. The pubs more than the shops, I rather suspect. Which brings us to why we are here.”

“Indeed, my lords?” Master Mott asked, awaiting their wisdom.

Lord Renly opened his mouth to spill out some more rubbish, but Lord Stannis cut in.

“We’re taking your journeyman to the Stormlands. We’ll send you compensation for your lost labour.”

With that, Lord Stannis put a hand on Gendry’s shoulder and guided him to the door, his brother following. Gendry was so taken off guard that he let himself be handled into a black and yellow chariot waiting outside the shop. The two lords got in after him and called out to the driver, and the whole thing started rolling down the street.

“Now hang on,” Gendry finally managed. “What do you think you’re playing at? I haven’t done nothing wrong. You can’t just pinch me like this.”

“You haven’t done _any_ thing wrong,” Lord Stannis corrected. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat and grime from Gendry’s shoulder off his glove.

“Of course you haven’t,” Lord Renly agreed. “We wouldn’t be taking you across the country in our own private coach if we suspected you had. Now, we can send for your things, if you’re truly set on having them. Do you live above that shop?”

“I rent a room in Gin Alley,” Gendry heard himself saying.

“Sounds delightful. I’ll send a man this evening to collect your belongings and settle your balance with the proprietress.”

“The what?” Gendry asked, then shook his head. “No, forget that. Why are two fancy folk like you coming to my work, dragging me into a carriage, and trying to tie up my whole life in King’s Landing to send me to the Stormlands, where I ain’t even been?”

Lord Stannis looked ready to correct him again, but Renly just gave him a look, and then turned back to Gendry.

“You see, my lad,” the younger lord began, “it concerns our brother, the Lord Paramount. I believe the stories of his marital woes have spread this far by now, surely.”

“You mean how his wife was dancing the blanket hornpipe with her brother? Yeah, everyone knows about that.”

“And how his children were actually no such thing,” added Lord Renly. “Yes. We should have seen it long ago. All Baratheon children have a certain look. Tall, strong build, blue eyes, black hair.”

The two lord brothers stared at him for a long moment. The warning was trying to burrow out of his skull.

“What’s this got to do with me?” Gendry asked.

“You have already met Lord Arryn. Although he is a very busy man, as Lord Paramount of the Vale and Hand of the Prince Regent, he maintains a particular fondness for my brother. Robert spent a lot of time at the Eyrie as a boy, and Lord Arryn thinks of him as a son. It was he who investigated Cersei, after he began having doubts. His investigations led to the truth about the paternity of Cersei’s children. It also led to the truth of your own.”

Though he was frozen in place, Gendry peeked out of the corner of his eye at the busy street behind the chariot’s curtains. If he waited until they got to a quieter street, he could jump out before they could stop him and run. He wasn’t too fast, but he knew the city better than them.

“You’re Robert’s natural son,” Lord Stannis told him without ado. “He came to King’s Landing twenty-four years ago, spent a few nights with your mother, and conceived you.”

Gendry shook his head. “No. That’s not possible. My mum wasn’t some fine lady. She was a barmaid. She’d’ve never met someone like him. Whoever my father was, he was just some drunk in Flea Bottom.”

“Robert likes low whores just as much as he likes courtesans,” Lord Stannis said, unflinching. “And you’ve got the look. No one who sees you could deny it, especially no one who knew him when he was your age.”

“I’m just a bastard,” Gendry insisted, trying to inch to the door. He didn’t need a quiet street. Probably, any cart rolling by wouldn’t kill him.

Lord Renly reached out and grasped him by the arm. He was stronger than he looked.

‘You’re a Lord Paramount’s bastard,” he said. “And soon you’ll be more than that. Robert wants to meet you.”

“Say that were the case,” Gendry said, “say Robert Baratheon really were my father, and he gave half a shit about meeting me. Why didn’t he come to King’s Landing himself? He’s come here loads of times before.”

The two lords exchanged a look.

“My brother,” started Lord Renly, searching for delicate phrasing, “is unwell. Years of drinking and eating to excess, combined with the stress of recent events, have weakened him considerably. He ordered us to bring you home to him before it was too late.”

For the first time since Lords Renly and Stannis walked into Master Mott’s shop, all of Gendry’s muscles unclenched, and he fell back against the plush seat. He had a father. His father was dying. He was a Warden’s bastard. He was spreading soot on the only velvet he’d ever touched in his life.

Sod it all.

\---

The trip wasn’t terrible, all things considered. Lord Renly did his best to make conversation with him and ask questions about his work, which was nice of him. Lord Stannis hated small talk and barely said a word, which was nicer.

When they reached the Stormlands, commoners recognised the chariot and rushed up to wave and call out, mostly offering Lord Renly good wishes. Lord Renly, of course, threw open the windows to wave to them. A few happened to lock eyes with Gendry for a second, and they’d all give him the same confused look before turning back to his uncle. This carried on for quite some time. Gendry looked over at Lord Stannis, who looked sour. They rolled their eyes at the same time, and for a moment, Gendry could have a sworn the ghost of a smile passed across his other uncle’s face.

They passed through plenty of little towns, getting the same treatment every time. Eventually, Gendry heard the familiar sounds of the shore in the distance.

“Look out the window, lad,” Lord Renly told him, with a mischievous smile. “It’s Storm’s End. Come see what your family owns.”

Gendry leaned forward, pushing a black curtain to the side. His jaw went slack.

A great palace stood beyond, so large it seemed set on trying to dwarf the sky. The whole thing sat on a cliff, and he couldn’t see much space between the walls of the building and the edge. There were rows and rows of gleaming windows, and the columns around the entryway stood as tall as the Sept of Baelor. This couldn’t be a house. Not a lord’s, not a king’s, not anyone’s.

_But it’s your father’s house. You and Mum had to put buckets on the floor when it rained, but your father lives here._

Not for the first time, Gendry wanted to tell his new uncles that he had changed his mind, that there had been a terrible mistake and it was best if they just shipped him back to King’s Landing. Master Mott probably hadn’t replaced him yet.

The carriage rolled to a halt out front. A bald man, dressed all in maester’s black, came forward to greet the group as they stepped.

“Ah, Jurne,” Renly greeted. “As you can see, the trip was a success. I trust you received the word I sent ahead and have made arrangements for young Gendry.”

“I have,” the bald man confirmed. He turned to Gendry. “Sir, I promise you that your happiness at Storm’s End is my chief priority.”

And then, horrifyingly, he bowed to Gendry.

“That’s, um,” Gendry managed. “Yes. Thanks.”

There was an awkward moment where Jurne watched him, probably expecting more out of his lord’s son. He didn’t get it. Gendry just focused on trying to stop his legs shaking without locking his knees as he did it. Finally, Renly clapped his hands together.

“Well, no use standing around. We’ll see my brother now. That is,” his voice dropped and his cheer subsided for a moment, “he is still-?”

“Yes, my lord,” Jurne reassured him. “You know how His Lordship is. The stubbornest man in the realm. So long as he’s wanting to see young Master Gendry here, he won’t let go.”

Lord Renly nodded. “Time to reward his bullheadedness. Lead the way, Maester!”

Jurne nodded stiffly and ushered the men into the house. The interior was mad as well. He could’ve fit every building along Gin Alley into the hall. Gendry had to crane his neck to see the ceiling, which was made up of carved panels. He’d never realised highborns wanted fancy ceilings too. It made sense. Still mad.

He followed the maester and his uncles as they made their way through the house. They passed through side hallways, which were smaller than the entrance but still maddeningly big. They finally stopped outside a set of doors twice as high as the ones he was used to. They were carved too. How much richer would the Baratheons be if they didn’t spend fortunes on scratching fine lines into everything they owned? He loved an ornate dagger as well as anyone, but a door was a door.

He snapped out of that train of thought when he realised Lord Renly and Maester Jurne had grown sombre again. Lord Stannis had remained sombre throughout.

 “Are you ready?” Lord Renly asked him.

No. No, of course he wasn’t. On the other side of that expensive door was a man who’d won wars and was like a son to the Hand of the Prince Regent and lived in a palace and happened to sleep with Gendry’s mother a few times. Men like that weren’t fathers to men like Gendry.

“He’s ready,” Lord Stannis decided. Gendry wanted to believe Lord Stannis had faith in him, saw something Gendry couldn’t, but he was pretty sure the man just wanted to get out of the hallway. Still, he nodded.

Jurne pushed open the door. “My lord? He’s come.”

Gendry wasn’t sure what he was expecting. When he was little and he saw the sort of men his mother brought home, he’d imagined his father must be as low as the lot of them. But then he’d pictured Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Warden of the East, celebrated war hero, once every maiden’s fantasy. He must have been big and strong, with a proud smile and a wise eye.

The man lying on the bed was fat. Very fat. He hadn’t got a shirt on, and the rolls of flesh bunched up under his hairy chest. He had the same blotchy face as any man who’d drunk more wine than water in his life, and under the red spots he was pale from sickness. His blue eyes were glassy. His hair was still thick, unlike his middle brother’s, but lank and unwashed. The room stank of him.

Right. Warden or not, this was pretty much what he’d always expected of his father.

“This is him?” Robert Baratheon asked, struggling to focus on Gendry. “Gods, look at him. Like looking into the past. Those muscles. He looks like he could lift an aurochs overhead. Come sit by me, my boy.”

Jurne pulled a chair out of thin air and set it by Lord Robert’s bedside. Gendry put one foot in front of the other until he reached it, and then dropped into the seat.

“Gendry, my son,” Robert marvelled. His voice was still deep, despite his weakness. “You’re a handsome one, too,” Lord Robert noted. “When I was your age, I had women swarming all around me. Wasn’t a kitchen maid safe. I bet it’s the same for you.”

Gendry didn’t say anything. No girl wanted to bother with a bastard apprentice and he didn’t much care to ask. Since he’d made his way to journeyman, he’d been working hard to establish himself and hadn’t given women much thought. They certainly didn’t seek him out – him with no means or smiles to offer. But Lord Robert didn’t seem like he wanted to hear that.

“Jon Arryn told me you trained as a blacksmith.”

“I did,” Gendry answered, his own voice fainter than he’d intended. He rallied. “Ten years apprenticed, two working. Made weaponry. Pistols and swords.”

Lord Robert laughed, even though it seemed to cause him a little pain. “That’s my boy! Fine work, that. Noble trade. Those boys I thought were mine, they never made a damned thing in their lives. Never did anything either. The little one just wanted to play with his cat. The older couldn’t do anything but bully farmers and whine to his mother. But just looking at you, I can see you’re hardworking. Serious. That’s more than I ever was.”

“Thank you, m’lord,” said Gendry.

“None of that,” Lord Robert scolded with a smile. “I’m your father. You’ll address me as such.”

“Yes,” said Gendry, and after a quick swallow, “Father.” The word sounded strange in the air, but Robert didn’t seem to mind. “I’m hoping to be certified as a master craftsman within a few years. I’d like to have my own shop someday.”

“What?” Lord Robert looked confused for a minute, and then he turned to his brothers with a nasty look. “You didn’t tell him? You pair of hornless stags, spent all that time on the road with him and never mentioned it?”

Lord Renly babbled for a moment, stunned. “We- We thought it was obvious. Since we were he- heading here, and you- no more heirs. I suppose we never actually said it aloud.”

“Said what?” Gendry really didn’t like the sound of this.

Looking back at him, Robert lifted a jittering hand and grasped Gendry’s forearm. “I need an heir, boy. And you’re the only son I’ve got. Jon Arryn’s already petitioning the Prince Regent to legitimise you quick as he can. And that damned fop’ll do it. It’s the least he can do, after everything he’s done to me. I’m making you a Baratheon, Gendry, and when I’m dead, the Stormlands will be yours.”

That was- He couldn’t just- How- Gendry was shaking his head and he wasn’t sure how to stop.

“Jurne, get him a drink.” Lord Renly was behind him somewhere.

Jurne came towards him with a tray, carrying a bottle of something and a glass. Gendry rarely ever drank, but today he ignored the glass and brought the bottle to his lips, tipping it high and trying to swallow some sense.

 When he needed to breathe, he handed the bottle back to Jurne and stared blankly at Lord Robert.

“I can’t just,” Gendry struggled, “ _be_ a lord. I’m a smith. And even that’s more than I had any right to expect out of life. You can’t just sit there and tell me I’ve got to be bloody Warden someday.”

“He can,” said Lord Stannis. “It’s all legal.”

“But it’s mad!”

“It’s what I’ve decided,” Lord Robert decreed. “And that’s the end of it. If there were any justice in the world, you'd be my trueborn son. If I’d married Lyanna, she’d have given me a son like you. I’m sure of that. I could’ve raised you as my heir, and you’d be ready for all this. The world isn’t fair. I’m only meeting you now, and you don’t know a damned thing. But you’ll learn. Not from these two fools. I’ve sent a message to my truest friend, Ned Stark. You heard of him?”

“I have.”

Eddard Stark, Lord Paramount and Warden of the North. Oldest family in Westeros. A man of honour and bravery. And friends with Gendry’s father.

“I’ve asked him to come down to Storm’s End. Sent the message just this morning. The North’s too far away; he won’t get here in time for me.” Robert gestured to himself, leaving no doubt what ‘in time’ meant. “But he’ll be here for you. He’ll steer you right. He’ll teach you the things you need to know to be a lord, to be a man. Listen to him. I have to wonder what it would’ve been like for me if I had.”

Robert stared off into space for a minute, lost in a world that he’d never lived in. He sighed deeply, but it turned into a cough, and then a series of wheezes.

“Fuck all the gods,” he rasped. He grabbed Gendry’s arm again. “You’ll do it, won’t you? I need you to take my place. I know I’m hardly a father, but you are my son. Say you’ll do it.”

Gendry didn’t want to. He wanted to say no. He wanted to refuse and run away into the night, find passage back to the Crownlands, and beg Master Mott for his job back. He wanted to keep being Gendry Waters, who only worried about making a masterpiece to get admitted to the Smiths’ Guild. He wanted to forget he’d ever heard the name Baratheon.

But Robert Baratheon, decrepit and dying but _trying_ , was looking at him like all his hopes and dreams were hanging on Gendry.

“I’ll do it,” he promised. “I’ll do it, Father.”

Robert relaxed and laid back on his pillows.

For three days, he held on, and for three days, Gendry sat at his new father’s bedside as Renly chatted and Stannis grumbled out corrections. On the third day, Jurne ushered in a red-faced, panting messenger, who read out an edict declaring that by order of the Prince Regent, Gendry Waters, son of Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Warden of the East, would henceforth be known as Gendry Baratheon, legal son and heir of House Baratheon. To Gendry, it felt like a punch in the stomach, but one he’d spent three days watching his enemy wind up for – awful, but a strange relief.

Robert just smiled, and closed his eyes.

“Everyone out now,” he ordered. “I don’t want to hear anyone’s voice but hers when I go.”

For an hour, Gendry, his uncles, and Jurne stood in the hallway, not really speaking. Eventually, by some silent agreement, they turned back to the door. Gendry raised a fist and rapped on the wood, the sound too loud in his ears.

“Father?” he called, the word still not quite fitting in his mouth.

No answer came.

Gendry opened the door, the creak screeching in his ears. They all stepped in. Robert lay in bed, unmoving, blood drained from his face. It was Jurne who stepped forward and lay an ear on his chest, touched two fingers to his neck. Finally, he stood back up, with his back to the Baratheon men. They heard him suck in a shaky breath and watched him square his shoulders. He turned back to them.

“Lord Robert Baratheon is dead,” he declared. “A long life and healthy life to you, Lord Gendry Baratheon.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is from Arya's POV.

“Oh, Arya, would you please sit up straight? We’ll be reaching Storm’s End any moment now and it won’t do to have you stumbling out of the coach with your dress crumpled like you just rolled down a hill.”

Arya Stark snapped her gaze from the rain-spattered coach window to her sister Sansa, sitting on the bench across her. They’d been travelling for weeks, and she was sure she hadn’t seen Sansa’s posture falter once. Arya slouched further to prove a point.

“What does it matter to you what they say of us at Storm’s End?” she asked, making a face. “We have no need of a good impression. It’s not like they’re making you marry this one too.”

Sansa flinched.

Arya dropped her eyes, ashamed. Sansa had been promised to marry Joffrey Baratheon years earlier, at the late Robert’s insistence. Arya had only met her sister’s betrothed a few times, but she’d been certain he was the foulest, nastiest little worm ever to crawl out of the Stormlands. Sansa, though, had only seen the shining hair and the mouth full of gallantries. She’d wanted nothing more than to leave the cold, dreary North and head south to marry her golden lord and wear yellow silk gowns. She had wept for weeks when the monstrous truth of his parentage had come out and the engagement was called off. When their father had first announced his plans to travel to the Stormlands to assist his late friend’s heir, Sansa had dubbed the area “the epicentre of my heartbreak” and vowed never to set foot there.

Mother had interjected at this, pointing out that Storm’s End was only a few days away from King’s Landing, and that surely Father would eventually be compelled to travel there with the new Lord Baratheon. Of course, she added, Father would take his daughters to court with him, where they might be introduced to all of the finest, most eligible young men in the kingdom. Sansa’s vow crumbled shortly after that.

A finger reached out and poked Arya in the temple, making her head bounce off the window.

“What are you thinking about?” Jon asked.

Arya smiled at him. There was the reason she had agreed to the trip. She had raged against leaving Winterfell to parade herself in front of a crowd of stupid young men and hope one of them would want to chain her to him and ruin her life. She had sworn that she would rather lock herself in the crypts than travel to the marriage market.

Then Father mentioned that he might bring Jon along as well. Arya had seen Jon go rigid at the thought of Father being away all summer, leaving his illegitimate son under the same roof as his wife. It would be miserable. Lady Catelyn might even succeed in pushing him out for good, as she had always wanted. Jon’s naked hope at the prospect of escaping that fate stilled Arya’s tongue. She knew he was being used as a bribe for her good behaviour, but she went along with it anyways. Jon would have done the same for her, were the roles reversed.

“I’m thinking,” said Arya, “that if I am forced to listen to that rain pounding over our heads for a minute longer, I shall tear the roof off with my own two hands.”

Jon just smiled. “Your own two hands? Don’t be ridiculous. I expect you to know that it would be our four hands together.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Father cut in. He turned to look out his own window so that they couldn’t see his smile. “With the damp air down here, we’d never get the thing dry again.”

“Look!” Sansa cried, pointing.

Jon and Arya crowded the glass pane. Beyond, partially obscured by the heavy curtain of rain, stood Storm’s End. The coach made its way closer, finally rolling to a stop before the house. Arya threw open the door and hopped out, stretching her arms and legs wide in relief. The warm flood was a relief after the unending stuffiness of the ride.

“My lady,” a man gasped. A row of servants was rushing towards her with him at the front, all of them wielding large umbrellas. No less than three of them converged to shield her from the downpour, getting quite wet themselves in the process.

“Oh,” said Arya, pushing wet hair from her face. “Thank you.” She did not feel particularly thankful to have the rainfall taken away from her, but she could hardly expect the unfamiliar staff to know and anticipate her preferences.

The other servants went to the coach, bringing their umbrellas over her family’s heads as they stepped out and joined her.

The first man stepped forward and bowed low. “Gilbert Farring, my lord, steward of Storm’s End. I am at your service.”

Father tipped his head to him. “Good day to you, Mr. Farring. Has your new master not come out to greet us?”

Gilbert bowed his head in regret, shutting his eyes in embarrassment.

“I regret, my lord,” he answered, “that the Lord Paramount is away at present. You were not expected until tomorrow, as a result of which His Lordship intends to be out most of today on some business. A simple miscommunication that I hope Your Lordship will not take as a slight.”

Father put up a hand. “Don’t trouble yourself. We made better time than expected.”

“I am certain he shall be back in time for dinner,” promised Gilbert. “However, Lord Renly is present and happy to greet you, if you will all step inside.”

The steward ushered them down the path and into the house. Arya took a look around as her umbrella-wielding assistants melted away. She had heard that Southerners liked to make their homes as gaudy and ostentatious as they could, but this was quite nice. High ceilings and polished wood and stone, but none of that Lannister gold left.

“Lord Stark,” greeted Renly Baratheon with a winning smile. He threw his hands out and took Father by the arms, which the latter accepted but obviously did not enjoy. “You have not changed a bit. You look as you did when I was a boy and you and my brother were glued at the hip. These must be your children.”

Renly turned to them.

“Aye,” said Father. “This is my son, Jon, and my daughters, Sansa and Arya.”

Jon nodded stiffly. Sansa curtsied prettily. Arya, who had been wringing her hair out, hooked one ankle behind the other and bobbed, then returned to her task.

“You have such a lovely home,” praised Sansa.

“It is lovely, isn’t it,” agreed Renly. “Although it would not be quite correct to say that _I_ have it. It belongs to my newfound nephew.”

“Yes, we were told that he’s not in,” said Father.

“Indeed. He shall not return for a few hours yet. And my brother Stannis has returned to Dragonstone for the time being. Consequently, I have been rattling around on my own all day and am relieved to have you here with me for company. It really is too large for just one. Perhaps your children would enjoy a tour?”

Father looked to his children, eyes stopping on the still dripping Arya.

“Jon and Sansa would be pleased, I’m sure. But I worry about what my younger daughter will do to your floors.”

Renly chuckled. He gestured to the servants.

“I fear you may be right,” he said. “In that case, the four of us shall take the tour, and Brella will show Lady Arya to her room, so that she may change. Would you care to lie down, my lady? We wouldn’t want you to catch your death of cold.”

Arya started to tell him Starks did not die from standing in the rain for a minute, but then a thought struck her, and she shut her mouth and nodded. She could feel her father’s wary eyes on her back, but she just smiled a guileless smile and set off with one of the maids.

She and Brella the maid chatted about the rain as they walked. When they finally reached Arya’s room, Arya was impressed to note they had already brought in her trunk. Brella moved to unpack it.

“No, no,” Arya stopped her. “I prefer to do it myself. You can go now. Lord Renly says I should rest. If I need any help, I will call.”

Brella curtsied and stepped out. Once the door shut behind her, Arya rushed to unpack. Under the pretty gowns Mother had selected for her, Arya found what she needed: Jon’s old clothes. They were overlarge on her, and worn thin in places, but that was all the better to make her unnoticeable. She shucked off her wet dress and pulled on her breeches and jacket. She gathered her damp hair under a cap.

_The game is not to be seen_ , she quoted to herself as she slipped into the hall. She was an expert at it back at Winterfell, but Storm’s End, with its unfamiliar layout and unknown timetables, was a thrilling new challenge.

She felt like she was nine years old again as she dived behind pillars and shot round corners to avoid detection. She thought for sure someone would come when she had the misfortune of opening the world’s creakiest door, but there was no one around to see her slip outside.

As if the skies themselves were helping her in her quest, the rain had stopped in the time since they had arrived. She took a few cautious steps away from the house and into the open, but once she was certain no one was following her, she broke into a laugh and started sprinting. There was a town nearby, and she would see it. She threw a hand atop her head to keep her cap from flying away as she ran ever faster. She could feel the wind on her face and under her feet.

Arya saw the great mud puddle in her path, but she didn’t even try to avoid it. She kept straight, and when her feet hit the patch, she slipped and landed with her entire left side dirtied, face and all. For a moment, she remained on her side, contemplating this new state, and then she just laughed harder and rolled onto her back, further mucking herself up.

_If those lords could see me now_ , she decided, _they wouldn’t propose to me for all the iron in Westeros._

And with that in mind, she raised a filthy hand and muddied the other side of her face.

When she was as unmarriageable as she felt she ought to be, she stood back up and started racing into town once again.

\---

After a couple of hours, Arya still felt she hadn’t seen everything. She wanted to climb the tower of the stony sept in the middle of town, and she wanted to jump into the creek on the outskirts. She _really_ wanted to try some of the funny-shaped cakes outside the bakeries. She would have liked to buy one, but she had forgotten to put even a half-penny in her pocket before she escaped.

She could hear music coming from down the road, and she spotted a large crowd gathered in a circle, probably watching some mummer or street musician. She rushed that way, stretching her neck to try and spot the source. She was so distracted that she did not notice the man in front of her until she collided with him.

“Oof,” she let out, stumbling back. “Sorry.”

The man, a thickset thing with a crooked nose and no hair, sneered at her. His greasy companion butted in.

“Watch yourself, toothpick,” he menaced. “You might’ve hurt Harry here something terrible. You can’t go ’round knocking into people.”

“So sorry,” Arya repeated, starting to move away. “I just wanted to- hey!”

The bald man grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back in front of him.

“You need to be taught a lesson,” he told her, bringing his face in close. He stank. “Fining’s always good for teaching little rats like you. Empty your pockets and you can go.”

“I haven’t got any money,” Arya told him, using her free arm to fish through her pocket as proof.

“Walkin’ ’round bumping into people without a penny on you in case you get fined?” asked the bald man’s friend. “That’s dangerous indeed. Now, you see, we’ll have to teach you a diff’rent way.”

Arya felt the stirrings of panic. No one had ever threatened her like this in Winter Town. It hadn’t occurred to her to bring even a little knife to scare away vermin. If she called out, would any passing Stormlanders come to her aid? She doubted it.

She was resolving to kick the bald one between the legs when a shadow fell over them all.

“Leave him be,” said a deep voice.

Arya and the thieves turned back to look at the speaker. Arya felt the hand on her arm falter. The bald man was big, but this new man was massive. He seemed to be made of nothing but muscles and an angry squint.

The bald man’s friend must have been even stupider than he looked, as he chose to argue.

“We have business with this one,” he tried to insist. He did not try very hard. “No one’s concern but ours what we do with him.”

The new man took a step forward. The bald man and his friend took several steps back, dropping Arya as they went.

“Your business is picking on skinny little boys, is it?” the man asked. “Maybe you want business with me instead. I’ve been hammering an anvil fifteen years. When I hit that steel, it sings. Are you gonna sing when I hit you?”

The two thieves looked him up and down one more time, decided they were not in the mood to find out, and turned tail. The man watched them go for a long moment, and then turned back to Arya.

“You alright?” he asked her.

She looked down and took stock of herself. A filthy mess, of course, but no more than she had been ten minutes ago.

“I’m fine, thanks. I was going to take care of them myself, though.”

“I’m sure you were,” he told her. “It’s always the little scrawny ones that turn out to be mad. I had to step in to save _them_.”

“I’m not scrawny,” she insisted. “And I could have. I know things.”

“Do you know how to eat?” he asked. At her indignant nod, he carried on. “Wouldn’t think so looking at you. C’mere.”

He jerked his head towards a table outside a nearby inn and sat at a bench. He pushed a half-eaten bowl of stew towards her.

“The whole thing’s put me off my lunch,” he told her, handing her a spoon. “Take it. Put some meat on your bones.”

Arya wanted to protest. It was obvious he was lowborn, and he’d be hungry again much sooner than she. But her stomach growled loudly, and she knew she would look silly if she turned down a meal. She took the spoon and dug in. The stew was thick and savoury on her tongue.

She watched the man as she ate. She could see his strength piled on his giant frame. His thick, dark brows over bright blue eyes gave him a sharp stare. Even as he sat quietly, he looked fierce. But he had scared off those men for her, and fed her after.

“Are you from around here?” she inquired.

He gave her a strange look for a second, but then he shook his head. “I’m new.”

“Me too,” she told him around a mouthful of stew.

“Why’d you come? You don’t sound like you’re from these parts. Plenty of other places you could go if you’re looking for work.”

“I didn’t really have a choice,” Arya answered. “But it seems alright around here. Lots to do if you’re looking for an adventure, perhaps.”

“An adventure,” the man repeated, amused. “What kind of adventure? You gonna go live in the Kingswood and be an outlaw?”

“I might,” she challenged, unable to fight a smile. “Or maybe I’ll get myself a sword and become a knight, just like in the stories.”

The man let out a deep, heavy laugh. The rumble of it caught Arya in the chest.

_It’s a nice laugh_ , she decided.

“Little thing like you wielding an old broadsword? Your arms would snap under it.” The man looked her over once, considering. “If you could get your hands on a rapier, a sabre at most, that would be better for you.”

“You know a lot about swords, do you?” Arya challenged, leaning forward.

“I know everything about 'em,” the man stated. It didn’t sound like a boast. Arya believed him.

She wanted to talk more about swords, get some better idea of what blade would be a good fit for her, but even through the cloud cover, she could see the sun starting to dip. She brought the bowl to her lips and slurped the last dregs.

“I have to go now,” she announced, standing up. “Are you in town every day? I can come see you again tomorrow, buy you your own bowl.”

The man stood too. “I can’t come often. I’ll see you when I see you.”

Arya smiled at him, and then turned and headed back in the direction of Storm’s End.

\---

Arya managed to get cleaned up with only minimal yelling. Her father had spotted her from one of the thousand windows, gone out to meet her, and ordered her to get washed up before dinner. He had given her that look that meant there would be a serious talk later, but all in all, she considered her outing successful. She had seen some of the sights and made a new friend. She was in such a good mood that she never even complained as Brella combed the tangles out of her hair and tried to pin it into something suitable. Arya waved her off. Her hair never cooperated with elaborate hairstyles like Sansa’s did, but it was at least not in danger of falling down around her shoulders.

By the time she was dressed, she was late to dinner and burst through the doors to the dining room to see five people standing about.

“Arya,” Father acknowledged, still steely. “Lord Renly was just introducing us to Lord Gendry. Come and greet him.”

Arya stepped forward and made a too-shallow curtsy towards the great lumbering ape standing next to-

_Oh._

Icy blue eyes took her in. The dark brows furrowed as Lord Gendry tried to remember where he had met her before. She saw the truth dawn on him and his entire face go slack in surprise.

“My- er, lady?” The Lord Paramount seemed unsure how to address her. He darted a look at everyone else, as if making sure that she was not a joke they were all playing on him.

Arya floundered for a moment, trying to make sense of it all. And then she did.

“My lord,” she accused.

After a quiet moment that went on a bit too long, Renly proposed they all sit down to eat. Arya rushed to take a seat near her father, as far from the newest high lord as she could get.

“So, Lord Gendry,” her father said, appraising his host, “tell us how you’re settling in. Have your uncles been teaching you about your duties? A noble’s first duty is to his tenants. It won’t do to neglect them.”

“Oh, right,” Lord Gendry said, sounding dazed. “Yes, my uncles. They’ve been talking to me ’bout everything I need to be doing. It’s, erm, it’s quite a lot. ’m not all that sure where to start.”

“Have you made plans to visit your lands, see what your people are dealing with?” Father asked.

“Not yet,” Lord Gendry admitted.

Of course he hadn’t. Far too busy going around town playing Daring Rescuer to bother looking after his tenants, she suspected.

“That will be one of the first things we do,” Father decided. “You cannot make plans for the future of the Stormlands if you know nothing about them.”

Lord Gendry nodded.

“You’ll also need to meet with the lesser lords. Have they started reaching out to you?”

Lord Gendry’s shoulders bunched up, and he stared so hard at the plate in front of him Arya expected to hear it crack.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve had a lot of letters and calling cards. Few of the nearer ones even stopped by. Brought their families with ’em.”

The footmen brought in the soup, and began ladling it.

“I never realised so many of the storm lords had unmarried daughters who liked to travel with them,” Renly observed knowingly, bringing his wineglass to his lips.

“I’m certain they only want to express their loyalty to Lord Gendry,” Sansa spoke up. She bestowed a gentle smile on the man in question. “You are, of course, vitally important to them.”

Lord Gendry’s head snapped up at the praise. He attempted some sort of move. It might have been meant as a polite gesture to Sansa, or he might have been reaching for his wine. Whatever his intention, the result was that he accidentally struck the footman and succeeded in overturning the soup tureen.

Sansa let out a little shriek and leapt out of her chair, avoiding the wave of consommé sailing in her direction. The Lord Paramount shot up in horror, knocking his own chair over, clearly unsure whether he should reach out for the startled lady or stagger backwards, where he could not injure anyone else.

Arya let out a bark of laughter before she could help it. The hapless lord looked over in her direction, but she just faced forward once again. He would get nothing else out of her this evening.

After a few minutes of the footman’s red-faced apologies and Sansa frantically ensuring that her gown was unstained, everyone sat back down. The meal was mostly quiet after that, apart from Lord Renly giggling intermittently into his wine.

When the last plate was cleared, Arya was the first to rise.

“Thank you for dinner,” she recited, staring at some point over Renly’s head. “I need some air.”

She sped out of the room without waiting for a dismissal. She found her way to the terrace. She threw herself onto a bench at the very end of it, where she could see the waves churning below in Shipbreaker Bay.

It was not long before she heard a familiar footfall behind her. She turned to see Jon standing there, concerned and expectant.

“Well?” he asked.

She gestured to the bench. He took a seat beside her. She tipped her head back, watching the brewing clouds overhead.

“It’s _horrible_ ,” she told him. “I met that lordling today in town.”

“You went to town?” Jon interrupted.

“Yes, and Father knows, and he’s going to yell at me later. Not the point. I snuck out during your tour, and I went into town in my spare clothes.”

“ _My_ clothes,” Jon corrected, with a half-peeved smile. She had not exactly asked before taking them, but only because he never wore them anymore, and she already knew he would have said yes if she had asked.

“Your clothes, my clothes. They’re our clothes. So I got into town, which was actually quite decent. We should go together sometime. Anyways, after a while, I bumped into two men. And they tried to make me pay them as compensation for it. I had no money, but even if I had, I wouldn’t have given any to them.”

Arya watched Jon’s knuckles tighten around the back of the bench. She patted his hand.

“At ease, Jon. You can see I’m unharmed.” She gestured to herself. “But anyways, just as I was about to handle them and make them regret being born, Lord _Gendry_ came along.” She pronounced his name with all the disdain she usually reserved for septas and dressmakers. “Only I didn’t know it was Lord Gendry. I thought he was just some townsman. But he stuck his nose in as if I couldn’t take care of myself. And after those rats ran off, he started feeding me half a bowl of stew, like I was about to faint from shock at any moment, just because I’m a woman.”

Jon leaned forward, looking sceptical.

“So,” he mused, “he saw you were being attacked, and he scared off the men, and then he fed you?”

Arya threw her hands up. He was missing the point.

“You make it sound like he’s some gallant knight coming to a damsel’s aid! I was fine, but he just couldn’t resist intruding. All these stupid Southerners want to think they’re dashing heroes saving helpless maidens. I don’t like it, and I have no need for it in my life.”

Jon shook his head fondly.

“I think you might be looking at this the wrong way,” he told her. “You know how worked up you get sometimes.”

“I’m not getting worked up!” she shouted. A few birds in a nearby tree took flight. She lowered her voice. “I’m not. I just hate thinking that we’re stuck down south, spending our summer with him and a hundred other lords just like him.”

Jon nodded. He brought her head to rest on his shoulder, and stroked her hair. He was always so understanding. No one understood her like Jon did.

“I know you’re unhappy we’re here,” he said, voice gruff and soothing. “And I know you only agreed to come for my sake.”

“That’s not true, I-” she started weakly.

“No, no,” he stopped her. “You only came along so that I would get to leave Winterfell for the summer. I’m very grateful to you. You have a big heart, and when you care for someone, you’d move the seven heavens for them. So if you’re determined to be angry with Lord Baratheon, I’ll stand by you. You know I will.”

“Thank you, Jon,” Arya sighed.

“But,” Jon carried on, “I hope you might try to keep an open mind. He seems like a decent man. Don’t let your stubborn pride close you off from making a friend.”

Arya sniffed.

“I’ll try,” she told him.

Fine. She would try. But she was not optimistic. Lord Gendry Baratheon most certainly did not seem like the sort of person she wanted as a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. That's not ideal. Don't worry, those two are too compatible and extra to stay enemies for long.
> 
> Next chapter will be back to Gendry's POV.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, commented, and reviewed. The feedback was incredible!

**Author's Note:**

> So that was the first chapter. I have taken _a lot_ of liberties with the Regency period and with the GRRM universe. I justify those changes by claiming that the different setting and universe means there will of course be modifications. I welcome any spirited debate about these changes in the comments.
> 
> Next chapter will be Arya's point of view!


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